


Batting 1000

by FrenchTwistResistance



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, I just want caos to be a sitcom where hot middle-aged ladies kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-11-08 01:14:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20826926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrenchTwistResistance/pseuds/FrenchTwistResistance
Summary: Zelda revisits some old hobbies.





	Batting 1000

**Author's Note:**

> Kind of a prompt fill for the group chat re: Zelda’s penchant for contact sports.

Hilda’s rummaging around on the end table mumbling about where she’d put her blasted reading glasses. Zelda watches from the armchair nearest the fireplace, barely peeking over her newspaper, not daring to tell Hilda the glasses she’s looking for are on top of her head. It’s a favorite game of hers, manipulating Hilda into an activity that will force the glasses to fall off and for Hilda to subsequently make that cute fake-mad face when she realizes Zelda’s known all along where her glasses were.

“Have you checked under the coffee table?” Zelda says casually.

“Why would I— ah! You’re trying to get me to bend over!” She narrows her eyes, pats the top of her head, finds the glasses. There’s the cute fake-mad look. Zelda laughs.

“Glad I didn’t completely spoil your fun about it. Well.” Hilda ambles over and kisses Zelda’s temple, says, “I’ll just be off then.”

“To where, again?” Zelda’s not trying to sound too interested, but she is curious in spite of herself.

“Beer and Books,” Hilda tosses over her shoulder as she loads a notebook and an unwieldy hardcover into her very large handbag.

“What do you mean Beer and Books? Didn’t you have that last night?”

“No, last night was Wine and Woodworking.”

“Yegads. That sounds like a severed finger waiting to happen.” Hilda laughs, says,

“The wine comes after the woodworking.”

“But, let me guess, the beer is during the books?” 

“Depends on the book. This one is very boring, so there is more beer involved than is typical.” Zelda clicks her tongue, says,

“In that case, you could stay home and have bourbon and books with me.” Hilda puts her handbag down on an ottoman, stares at Zelda a second.

“You know, I’ve been thinking—”

“I don’t like the sound of that,” Zelda says, but she nevertheless folds her newspaper and rests it on her knee as she focuses on Hilda exclusively.

“Hmm. I’m sure you don’t. It’s just that. Most of our business nowadays is cremations, which takes much less time and effort. And Sabrina drives now, and Ambrose is free to do as he pleases. I’ve always made time for my hobbies because we have different personalities and philosophies. But maybe the conditions are finally right so that you’d like to get back into some of your old hobbies?” 

They stare at each other a moment, and Hilda can see the ire rising in Zelda’s face. She’d thought she’d been so diplomatic. Zelda sits up very straight, hisses,

“Go ahead and finish that thought, sister. your untruncated sentiment would go something like—” A very brief pause so she can clear her throat and throw herself into a calculatedly bad approximation of Hilda’s voice, calibrated specifically to upset Hilda: “‘Get back into some of your old hobbies instead of skulking around the house drinking too much and getting jealous that I have other friends.’” She pauses again to shift back into her own voice. But not just her own voice. The coldest, sharpest Zelda voice she can muster, also calibrated to upset Hilda but in a different way:

“I know what you think of me, and I have no doubt this little ‘thought’ you’ve had is not for my edification so much as to assuage your own guilt about always and forever being a frivolous nincompoop wrapped up in her own social life with idiot mortals. Your selfish reasoning is that if I have my own mortal idiots to pal around with I won’t look too closely at what you’re doing with yours.” She lights a cigarette and stands, and she’s riled herself up enough that she doesn’t bother with any voice calibration at all, is pure rage as she says, “My old hobbies! What could that even mean to you? My old hobbies! My alchemy phase when I was eleven? Rolling bandages and salvaging old tires during the war?” She puts two fingers to her temple, glares into Hilda’s eyes. “Fucking men I don’t like for social standing?”

Hilda unfastens and refastens the bottom button of her cardigan compulsively, but that’s her only sign of anxiety as she glares back at Zelda and says,

“You seem to be working from a very broad definition of the word ‘hobby.’ But if you’d like to continue to be deliberately obtuse and needlessly belligerent, that’s your prerogative. As I mentioned previously, East of Eden is very tedious, and I will be very drunk when or if I come home. Goodbye.” 

With that, Hilda takes up her bag and leaves the parlor.

Zelda stands in the middle of the room smoking and thinking and rethinking Hilda’s words.

xxx

The next morning, Hilda’s breakfast is all old-timey British comfort food: deviled kidneys, coddled eggs, kippers, piccalilli, cheese turnovers. The anachronistic food selection is one of the only reliable indicators that Hilda is hungover.

Hilda seems as chipper and awake as always as she prepares these dishes although she does pointedly avoid eye contact with Zelda, and when their eyes do chance to meet, it’s all daggers and dares.

Ambrose tucks into a loaded plate, elated. Sabrina is dubious but overall a good sport. Zelda is strictly coffee and kippers, but she secretly enjoys watching Hilda enjoy the breakfast she’d prepared for mostly herself.

When the kids are gone, Zelda sidles up against Hilda at the sink, making to wash dishes with her.

“What’s this, then?” Hilda says.

“I wanted to apologize,” Zelda says. Hilda turns off the tap, looks at her finally, says,

“I’ll have to write this in my diary.”

“You haven’t kept a diary since 1914.”

“And you haven’t apologized since the day I caught you reading my diary in 1914.”

Zelda turns the tap back on, scrubs vigorously at a pan instead of looking at Hilda, says,

“What hobbies were you referring to last night?”

Hilda pops a cheese turnover into her mouth so she can have a little time to process what Zelda’s saying and implying and admitting. She finally swallows just as Zelda’s handing the pan over to be rinsed. She rinses it and places it strategically in the drying rack, says,

“At Quilting and Cognac last Sunday, one of the women was wearing shorts that showed this horrible bruise on her thigh. I finally asked about it, and she said she was in a particularly brutal softball league.”

“So?” Zelda says. She is trying to be interested this time, but she’s not exactly following. She begins scrubbing the next dish.

“So. You used to so enjoy athletics. Especially if they afforded you an opportunity to tackle someone. I quizzed Edith extensively about it, and from her testimony, I feel you would find the experience of participating stimulating.”

Zelda passes the cooking sheet she’s just scrubbed over to Hilda’s waiting hands, and she bites her tongue. She doesn’t want to start a fight accusing Hilda of implying she’s stagnant and in dire need of stimulation. She tries to understand Hilda’s thought process. She can’t exactly, but she says anyway,

“Where and when do they practice?”

xxx

At first it’s a tense detente.

They go through phases and cycles like this all the time—so many fads and kicks over so many years together and separate and together again—but it doesn’t make it any easier when the tide turns a particular way.

Zelda is not so committed at the outset, tentative, shy even. It’s off-brand, uncharacteristic that she should be uncomfortable in any situation, but even a woman such as she has her fears and insecurities. It takes at least three weekly practices for her to show her true self—as true a self as mortal softball players can handle, anyway.

And Hilda is accordingly suspicious about Zelda’s motives. Sure, she’d suggested it. But she knows better than anyone what kind of volatile entity Zelda is, beholden to only her own whims.

Strained weeks go by of Hilda’s regular hobbies and Zelda’s new not-exactly-her-idea hobby. A lot of silence between them. A lot of brushing shoulders in the hallway and not looking at each other about it. A lot of quiet darkness in their shared bedroom.

And then just as Hilda’s trying to quietly make her way to the bathroom half-drunk from Quilting and Cognac, Zelda’s watching herself doing squats in their full-length bedroom mirror—in spandex bike shorts and a ribbed cotton tank top rather than her usual silk nightdress—and sees Hilda in her periphery and addresses her:

“I don’t play shortstop like I used to. You should come to our first game.”

xxx

It’s the top of the sixth. Zelda’s team is fielding, and Hilda is in the front row, just right of the bullpen. She doesn’t care that she can’t really discern what’s happening on the bases or in the outfield. Zelda plays catcher, and that’s all she cares about. 

They’re the Greendale Gorgons, uniforms a kelly green that looks ok on most people—there’s enough blue in kelly green for it to be universally flattering. But Zelda’s a red head and any green looks better on her than it does on most people.

Hilda’s in the moderately populated stands wearing green eyeshadow instead of her usual blue, a green cardigan rather than her usual mustard. Her wool skirt is mostly brown but the highlighting threads are green. She’s waving a green pennant bearing Zelda’s jersey number—13—and yelling at the volunteer umpires with all the ardor of an entitled rich spectator at a professional game.

It’s the top of the sixth, and number 8 from the Riverdale Ravens is attempting to slide into home plate.

Zelda’s suddenly got the ball in her mitt and is running full throttle, skidding, meeting 8, tackling 8.

Out.

Hilda cheers and waves the pennant. She looks over her shoulder, says to the man sitting closest,

“Isn’t she marvelous? My Zelda is quick as a fox and twice as cunning.” He nods noncommittally.

It’s the bottom of the sixth, and Zelda’s third at bat.

Hilda turns over her left shoulder this time, addresses a woman more interested in her funnel cake than the game:

“Third at bat is the best player, you know. It’s the one they trust to definitely hit the ball. Not sure I’ve ever seen my Zelds execute less than a double play.”

Strike.

Hilda grits her teeth and clenches the pennant in her fist.

Strike.

Hilda’s fingernails are sharp against her own thigh.

Ball.

“Didn’t I tell you she’s got a good eye?!” Hilda says to anyone who might listen.

A solid crack of the bat.

“That’s my girl!” Hilda shouts.

An outfielder lunges impotently. And Zelda is running, running. A foot on first base and a quick turn, running still, a foot on second base. Zelda slides into third just as the shortstop catches the throw from outfield and hurls it to the pitcher.

Hilda skims her fingers along the cooler at her feet. Inside the cooler it is bottled water and Gatorade and orange slices. Hilda had prepared the contents to be a balm to Zelda’s team whether they win or not, something to replenish them and encourage them.

But she’d rather they win.

xxx

It’s the bottom of the ninth, and the score is tied.

Zelda is not as bloody and bruised as she’d prefer, Hilda knows.

Hilda knows Zelda prefers sports that leave her an absolute mess. Hilda tries not to think about all the psychology of it, tries to focus instead on Zelda’s batting stance.

“My Zelds cuts quite a figure, yeah?” Hilda says to the couple behind her.

Ball.

Strike.

Crack.

Zelda’s barreling through the bases. It hadn’t been a grand slam, but the fielding team is inept enough and she’s quick enough that she’s sliding into home.

Hilda’s on her feet cheering, and the whole of the Gorgons team is chanting and lifting Zelda onto their shoulders.

A woman to Hilda’s right is saying,

“Your wife is so talented!”

And a man at her left is saying into her ear,

“The old ball and chain can certainly play ball!”

Hilda’s too into the game to correct any of them.

xxx

The orange slices come in handy on Edith’s back porch, squeezed into bottles of Blue Moon or as garnish for various other drinks. She’s second baseman and first at bat, and they celebrate their victory at her house because she’s got a well-manicured backyard and a heated in-ground pool.

Hilda’s discussing Herman Melville’s merits and demerits with a man wearing a sweater vest very near the chiminea when Zelda, still in her uniform and pony-tail, approaches and says,

“Sorry. I’ve got to take her.”

Zelda’s warm hand is in the inside of Hilda’s elbow, dragging her away. And the man nods so knowingly.

They’re in the back shed now, breathing at each other.

“You did so well—” Hilda’s saying even as Zelda’s saying,

“Your support has meant—”

They look at each other in the dark and damp of the shed.

“Well. As Gertrude Stein might say—”

“Don’t,” Zelda says.

“Don’t? You invited me to bourbon and books with you…” Zelda scoffs but doesn’t move. Her body is so close to Hilda’s body. Zelda says,

“You’re about to say ‘a rose is a rose is a rose.’ And I can’t bear that. I can’t bear that you think I’m so prosaic as that.”

Hilda’s fingers trace Zelda’s knuckles.

“I was not about to say that at all.”

“Regardless,” Zelda says. She looks away from Hilda’s eyes.

“Might I remind you. You brought me here.”

“And now I’m releasing you.”

Hilda takes one last look at her and then leaves the shed. 

There’s no there there. That’s what Hilda had wanted to say. She’d wanted to talk about the there there.

But they’re in that weird cyclical place they often fall into, circling around each other haphazardly.

xxx

Hilda slips out of the pool.

She’s played water volleyball long enough.

And now she’s sitting in Edith’s greenhouse with a towel around her shoulders, attempting to warm herself among the tomatoes and hydrangeas and lettuce and rose bushes.

“You’ve got goosebumps,” she hears Zelda’s voice say. “I’ve got a remedy for that.”

Hilda scans the greenhouse, and her gaze lands on her sister, who is standing straight in front of her suddenly.

“You’ve never been the one for remedies,” Hilda says.

“A broken clock is right twice a day,” Zelda says. Hilda smells the alcohol on her, tries to identify it. Through the haze of her own inebriation and the dense air of the greenhouse, she’s lost.

xxx

Tongues.

They’re in Edith’s greenhouse.

And they are kissing. 

It’s feverish, maddening.

Zelda’s been drinking rum, Hilda finally decides. An overly sweet drink. Hilda knows Zelda will regret the decision in the morning. She knows Zelda prefers the full-bodied and hearty substance of a red wine or a bourbon. Hilda also knows her own preference for beer might bite her.

Alcohol preferences are neither here nor there. The there there is different now as Hilda’s fingernails dig into displaced earth behind her.

Zelda’s pawing at Hilda, her mouth and her fingers feral in their perusal of Hilda’s supple body.

They’ve often danced this foxtrot before. Hilda remembers the steps, and Zelda is artful in her own recitation.

Hilda responds to tongue and teeth and hands. The goosebumps are gone. Perhaps she responds too well, remembers too much.

A wail.

Zelda claps her hand over Hilda’s mouth, whispers,

“Quiet. We might as well be in public.”

But Zelda doesn’t stop her other hand from creeping under Hilda’s bathing suit.

Hilda moans against Zelda’s fingers on her mouth, tongue darting along middle finger. Zelda moans now, too.

xxx

Zelda’s left first.

Hilda clutches tighter to the towel around her as she shakily steps back onto the patio, trying to pretend to be normal.

The same Melville chap from beside the chiminea, tie now loosened and sweater vest long abandoned, says to her,

“If only my own wife were such a wildcat as yours.”

She shudders. But she can’t say she doesn’t like the implication.

xxx

The anachronistic food selection is one of the only reliable indicators that Hilda is hungover.

Zelda is all kippers and coffee.

Until she abandons both kippers and coffee and after the kids have gone says to Hilda,

“What base might I get to this morning?”

“You’re assuming you’re on the offense,” Hilda says.


End file.
